Look down to see right.

Is it in any way correct, or logical, or practical, that the smell of your skin leaks out of mine? Am I allowed to be pouring your scent into the world? Do you grant me a full fledged permission to crash foolishly into you, even as my body pretends to be an extension of you?

I guess not.

I guess things are just never what they are made out to be. Or what we wish to make of them. We can shape them as much as we want, but all we own are moments. This is all we are. This is all we can take. There is only so much left.

This is the kind of violence, of cold, uncalculated guilt, that I thought would take over, but instead its turning into a freezing kindness that I can only push myself to begging for a blindfold.

This is the kind of treasure you only realize made a difference once it is no longer there.
One of those useless trinkets which all of a sudden keep you sane, no longer there, leaving you to fight for your own sanity armed with nothing but a crystal rope.

Tenderly, grab that crystal rope and tie it around both wrists, taste the salt on its icy face and cry on the diamonds in it. Life is once more a little bit more fragile.